Fuck Off Helen

Sensitive content/trigger warning: Story contains language, mental health issues, and abuse.

Meg,

It has been a while since we last spoke. Many events have occurred during this time; however, I hope you accept the invitation enclosed.

I recognize the writing immediately. Helen. Seriously Helen? What the fuck, Helen? Has it been "a while," Helen? It has been nine fucking years, Helen. Fuck off, Helen.

I shove the note back into the manila envelope it was delivered in, note the lavender-colored invitation inside, drop it on the ground, and stomp on it.

Dramatic? Yes.

But when did she start using lavender envelopes for anything? I'm not opening the stupid invitation. It's probably for some award or celebratory banquet in honor of how fucking wonderful she is. Or people think she is. Fuck her. Fuck them. Fuck that stupid purple envelope and whatever stupid fucking invitation is inside it.

Helen has always been a pain in my ass. I was four years old when she was born. I don't remember it or her coming home from the hospital or anything like that, but I do remember that when I was six years old, I dropped to my knees in front of the oil-painted Jesus hanging on our front room wall and prayed to Jesus that He would make her nice. I know, I know, she was two! I get that, but sweet Lord, she was a lunatic of a two-year-old—a hair-pulling, spitting, Barbie-destroying toddler.

Well, let me tell you, my prayers went un-fucking-answered. At the age of 49--Oh my God--is it an invitation to her 50th birthday party? It would be next month, February. Born in a cold month with a cold heart. That's what it could be. No thanks! I don't think Helen being on this earth for 50 fucking years is anything to celebrate. Have a good time, Helen, with all the fucking people you've deceived with your "do-good" acts! I hope they kiss your ass until it bleeds.

You have to understand. Helen is beautiful. Eyes of green, mined from the fields of Ireland itself, it seems, and her hair -- the envy of every wanna-be redhead. It's the red that leans toward strawberry with shimmery blonde strands that so many try to duplicate, but few can. Trust me, I've tried. My "dirty dishwasher blonde" (as Helen calls it) just turned - orange.

Besides her looks, which by the way she had no control over, that was pure luck based on my parents' genetics. I mean, her original, non-botoxed, filler-faced beauty was thanks to my parents. It's just one of the fake-ass things she does that fools so many-- "Follow me for more advice on maintaining a youthful glow!" she'll tout on Facebook as she rubs serum onto her forehead, forgetting to mention that she had a dozen Botox injections in her forehead just days before. And I know because I saw her there. Yes, go ahead and judge, I get Botox too, but I don't pretend that I don't. I mean, I don't tell people, but I don't act like it's a serum keeping my forehead smooth and post about to make money.

Anyway, I feel like I'm getting off-base here. Her looks are her looks. Plenty of people are deceiving others in the ways I mentioned above. Tale as old as time -- selling snake oils. What you really need to know is what a bad fucking person she is. Think alcoholic, think narcissist, think mean. Mean with a capital M. And all the while, she's reminding others to "be kind" or "let go and live" and lots of other bullshit she markets on social media -- fooling everyone and pretending as if she is living the ideal life of a busy middle-aged Mom who adores her husband and cherishes moments with her adult children.

It's all a fucking lie. Two of her three children don't even talk to her. They talk to me. I wonder if they've been invited to her 50th or whatever this invitation is for. I should call them, or better yet, call my son to see if he was invited. I would call him, but he pissed me off last week. He is absolutely so wrapped up in himself that it's impossible to be around him at times. And last week was one of those times. I'm not calling him. He can contact me. I'm tired of always being the better person. The one that actually is "good". Not pretend good like Helen—piece of lying-ass rodent crap.

I don't understand how people excuse her. I know others have been on the receiving end of her bullshit, but it's always "oh, she's been through so much" or "she had such a rough childhood, she's such an inspiration!"

Well, guess what motherfuckers, I lived in that same house, with the same parents. Her bipolar brother was my bipolar brother. Her creepy uncle was my uncle, too. I slept in the same filth, ate the same processed foods she ate, and went to the same crazy, full-of-guilt Catholic school she went to. The belt that hit her backside was the same belt that hit my backside. Yet, you don't see me walking around spouting bullshit at everyone, do you? No, you don't. I'm honest. I will tell you like it is.

Like I told my ex-husband, I have a special gift -- I can see the shit in everyone. Every single one of you. Especially the "Helens" of the world, the "be like me, full of grace and forgiveness" humans of the world.

Seriously, the Helens sell that bullshit, then turn around and pour hot sauce down their kid's throat for saying the word bullshit. Fuck off, all you Helens.

I'm tempted to open the stupid invitation. I can feel my blood pressure rising just thinking about it. I was having a perfectly fine day until I opened that manila envelope. Perfectly fine fucking day. Another chalk mark for Helen—ruined another day, Helen. Congratulations, dear sister.

I put it in the trash. I'll stuff it down in there, mash it with the other smelly garbage.

I don't have to bring the bin out until tomorrow night, so I could change my mind.

But for now, it will rest with waste, where it belongs.